morning." So saying, he led Kate off at a good round pace towards Cavendish Square.
"I am very much obliged to you, uncle," said the young lady, after they had hurried on in silence for some time; "very."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Ralph. "I hope you'll do your duty."
"I will try to please, uncle," replied Kate; "indeed I—"
"Don't begin to cry," growled Ralph; "I hate crying."
"It's very foolish, I know, uncle," began poor Kate.
"It is," replied Ralph, stopping her short, "and very affected besides. Let me see no more of it."
Perhaps this was not the best way to dry the tears of a young and sensitive female about to make her first entry on an entirely new scene of life, among cold and uninterested strangers; but it had its effect notwithstanding. Kate coloured deeply, breathed quickly for a few moments, and then walked on with a firmer and more determined step.
It was a curious contrast to see how the timid country girl shrunk through the crowd that hurried up and down the streets, giving way to the press of people, and clinging closely to Ralph as though she feared to lose him in the throng; and how the stem and hard-featured man of business went doggedly on, elbowing the passengers aside, and now and then exchanging a gruff* salutation with some passing acquaintance, who turned to look back upon his pretty charge with looks expressive of surprise, and seemed to wonder at the ill-assorted companionship. But it would have been a stranger contrast still, to have read the hearts that were beating side by side; to have had laid bare the gentle innocence of the one, and the rugged villany of the other; to have hung upon the guileless thoughts of the affectionate girl, and been amazed that among all the wily plots and calculations of the old man, there should not be one word or figure denoting thought of death or of the grave. But so it was; and stranger still—though this is a thing of every day—the warm young heart palpitated with a thousand anxieties and apprehensions, while that of the old worldly man lay rusting in its cell, beating only as a piece of cunning mechanism, and yielding no one throb of hope, or fear, or love, or care, for any living thing.
"Uncle," said Kate, when she judged they must be near their destination, "I must ask one question of you. I am to live at home?"
"At home!" replied Ralph; "where's that?"
"I mean with my mother—the widow," said Kate, emphatically.
"You will live, to all intents and purposes, here," rejoined Ralph; "for here you will take your meals, and here you will be from morning till night; occasionally perhaps till morning again."
"But at night, I mean," said Kate; "I cannot leave her, uncle. I must have some place that I can call a home; it will be wherever she is, you know, and may be a very humble one."
"May be!" said Ralph, walking faster in the impatience provoked by the remark, "must be, you mean. May be a humble one! Is the girl mad?"
"The word slipped from my lips, I did not mean it indeed," urged Kate.
